


The Question

by emetsketeers



Series: puke with a side of H/C [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Torture, puke, water cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emetsketeers/pseuds/emetsketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis comes to the rescue as Athos is put to the question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Question

The cloth in his mouth tasted of soot and bile and scratched at his throat as it corked the water inside him. Down his gullet, making him gag when extracted: this he’d almost gotten used to. Now it bunched in his mouth, too, and he feared that if he did vomit now, if he did bring all the water up, it would have nowhere to go but into his lungs… and the fear of it, the fear was nearly as sharp as the pain…

And then, new voices. New, wonderfully familiar voices.

Athos himself could not respond, but watched with dawning hope as Aramis burst into the chamber. His torturers fell like scarecrows, and Athos pulled weakly at his restraints, not sure how much longer he could keep his stomach in check… there was so much water in him, so, _so_ much water…

And then a knife slit through his restraints. His head swam, stomach lurched, as Aramis pulled him upright. Familiar fingers reached up to pull the cloth out. Then Aramis frowned, feeling the resistance.

And Athos saw the moment. Saw the moment that Aramis realized: all the water on the floor was not water at all, not really, but vomit.

His vomit.

“Athos,” he crooned. “I’m sorry, my friend. Are you ready?”

He was beyond ready. He nodded.

Aramis gripped the cloth and, in one swift motion, pulled it out of Athos’ mouth and up from his throat.

And it hurt, scraped, _tore_ , each fiber dry and rough against his ruined throat. His stomach gurgled, heaved, and squeezed. And Athos closed his eyes and brought up a river’s worth of sticky water, all over Aramis’ boots.

“It’s okay,” Aramis soothed, stepping a little to the side as Athos coughed harshly, gagged, and threw up another wave. “Oh, my brother. They put you to the question, all right.”

Athos could not reply, instead vomiting up yet another gush of water. He’d long since given up on wondering how much water his stomach could actually hold; more than should have been possible, was the answer. Aramis rubbed his back as his stomach contracted, and another awful wave surged up and out of him.

“Come off the cot,” Aramis directed, helping him up. “Come on, hands and knees… it’ll come up easier that way…”

Athos wasn’t sure about that (it didn’t seem to be having much trouble in coming up at all) but Aramis seemed insistent, and a few seconds later he found himself kneeling on the stone floor, hands sending ripples through the shallow puddles of watery vomit… he winced with pain as his stomach tightened, and he threw up twice more in rapid succession, the lukewarm water splashing all over his hands. But even though the water seemed to be dwindling, he could not stop gagging, could not stop retching, his whole lower half contracting in violent pulses…

Beyond just overfilled now, he was actually nauseous, sickened by the stench and the torture and the need to tell Aramis, to tell Aramis…

“I didn’t talk,” Athos rasped, voice low and harsh and barely his own.

_Hours_. Hours the torture had lasted, pausing every so often between rounds to demand the information of him. He hadn’t cracked; had spilled more vomit from between his lips than he thought he’d had in his lifetime thus far, but he had not spilled his country’s secrets…

“I never doubted that for a moment, Athos,” Aramis soothed. He was crouched beside him now, with a hand at the small of his back.

The now-familiar feeling rose from his belly, the shivery imminence of sickness, and Athos leaned forward and opened his mouth. But what came next caught him off guard. Purging had been agony all along but this time it was _anguish_ , blisteringly hot in his ravaged throat and rancidly bitter on his tongue, and he forced his eyes open to see that, rather than simply regurgitating water, he’d begun to bring up actual vomit, liquid still but thicker, browner…

Aramis realized as well. “That’s good,” he soothed, rubbing Athos’ back. “You’re out of water. Your stomach will settle soon, and then this will all be over.”

Athos couldn’t bring himself to reply, but had to disagree that anything about this was good; it _hurt_ , so much as to push him nearly beyond reason, and after two more bouts he found himself unable to hold back the tears. They plopped into the puddles before him, just one more thing he could not keep inside himself. He was bursting open. He was coming apart.

Aramis touched a hand to his cheek. “It’s okay, Athos. You’re safe now. You didn’t break, my friend. You didn’t give in, and now we’re here to save you.”

Athos ground his teeth together; he knew that to sob would only bring him further pain, but he was far too beaten down to stop from weeping silently. He mashed a sopping hand against his forehead, keeping the heaves at bay through will alone.

Aramis’ fingers disappeared from his face, their absence prompting an undignified whimper; but in the next moment Athos felt them again, slipping beneath the waistline of his trousers and up the hem of his shirt, pressing warmly against his bloated, aching belly.

Another whimper: this one of relief.

The pressure that Aramis applied was bare, and yet somehow it was sufficient to ground Athos, to pull him back from the devastating sensation of a loss of control. His stomach was his stomach, nothing more. He’d been sickened, badly enough to vomit, and had done so. But _this_ was the truth of it, not the shadowy horror story he’d concocted behind closed eyes.

He could handle this. Lord knew he’d made himself sicker on wine, more times than he cared to recall.

He could handle this.

Aramis’ fingertips rubbed light little circles over the skin of Athos’ belly, and Athos lurched and shuddered, feeling the pressure building yet again. His stomach bubbled, the contents working their way up yet again, and Athos opened his mouth… and belched hugely, tremendously, a small splatter of vomit not far behind.

The nausea receded like a tide, faded to manageable proportions. Athos pulled in a deep gasp of air. The way his muscles relaxed must have been palpable, for Aramis gave a smile; it lit up the solemnity in his eyes, brightening it into something happier but no less kind. “Think you’re finished?”

Athos nodded once.

“Then we should get you warmed up. You may have gotten rid of the water but it was damn near freezing, and it was in you long enough.”

He nodded again. Aramis took his hand away, the time for comfort passing swiftly, and Athos wiped his cheeks and pushed himself to his feet.

When his vision cleared he was veritably clinging to Aramis. He tried to take account of the last few seconds: of the wave of terrible vertigo, the renewed urge to vomit, the way Aramis had caught him bodily, arms around his waist. He didn’t remember flinging his own arms around Aramis’ shoulders, but at some point he’d done so.

“Hey, hey,” Aramis whispered. “Relax, I won’t let you fall.”

Athos believed him. He whimpered yet again, and pressed his face into Aramis’ shoulder.

A moment later, another voice joined the conversation. “It’s secure. Can he walk?” Porthos prompted, gently, and as much as Athos wanted to force himself to say _yes_ , he also wanted Aramis to speak for him, say _no_.

“I’m thinking not,” Aramis murmured, and Athos nearly wept once more.

“Then let’s get him the hell out of here,” Porthos growled. The next thing Athos knew there was an arm around his shoulders and an arm against his thighs, and Aramis was helping lift him up into Porthos’ grasp, despite the fact that Porthos could definitely have done it himself. Athos closed his eyes, let himself be carried.

A short while later he was settled gently into a bed, propped up by pillows, and covered with a blanket. Aramis’ thumb brushed his lips. Athos opened his mouth obediently and swallowed a spoonful of warm honey, relaxing further as its sweetness banished the foul taste of vomit from his tongue. He still felt bloated and a little queasy, but far, far better, not to mention warmer and safer… _safer_ …

“Sleep,” Aramis soothed, “we’re with you, Athos. We’re here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, all :)
> 
> From wiki: _Water cure as a phrase for a form of torture refers to a method in which the victim is forced to drink large quantities of water in a short time... The stomach fills until near bursting and is sometimes beaten until the victim vomits and the torture begins again... Water torture was used extensively and legally by the courts of France from the Middle Ages to the 17th and 18th centuries. It was known as being put to "the question"._


End file.
